Second Chances

You could have been an unknown,
small town, power bereft
railway station
where no coach and no wagon
ever stops. 
You could have been forgotten thoughts
and a season 
snatched by oblivion.
You could have been a drought
stricken field-
the lush, bountiful greens
burnt to sienna and marred

by elusive rains, 
then charred
to a black none would see.
You could have been the
distant rumble
of an angry quake, the
immediate tumble
of bricks and buildings and beings-
a fiery tremor to shake
people out of sleep.
You could have been the silence
before the storm
and the rough rush
of rains born
of split, scorching skies.
You could have been a 
steady, salty downpour from the eyes.
You could have been the troughs
and crests of waves 
upon violent seas-
an untrammeled, untamed fury
descending, devouring the whole
of your unsuspecting city.
You could have been
a missed train
and an unfinished story
and a pen that ran out of ink.
You could have been
spilled coffee on a date
and spoilt conversations
and a mind that forgot to think.
Of all the things you could be,
when did you become poetry?
(for all those who survived the worst and didn't give up)
:)